


people like us know how to survive

by exley



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Identity Porn, Spy Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3616320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exley/pseuds/exley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Galahad met Natalie Rushman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	people like us know how to survive

I.

 

 

They first cross paths in the canton of Ticino. SHIELD is on vacation, which means Natasha is on vacation. She has never been to Switzerland, and the country is beautiful. She stands on a bridge near Sant-Abbondio, appreciating the clear water bubbling over the pebbles in the river, and wishes Clint were there to take her picture.

The day is reserved for sightseeing; that night sees her ducking into a small café, spent from hiking and shopping. She is craving some hot chocolate and a pastry.

She finds a seat near the window; the place is moderately busy, and the noise and bustle helps her to relax. She sips her hot chocolate and looks over her texts (she laughs to herself at a few pics of Sam and Steve, taking Americana selfies on their find-Bucky road trip). It only takes a few seconds of people-watching for her to notice something odd.

There’s a young man, early twenties by her lights, dressed like a BMW-driving, high-flying investment banker sitting two tables away from her. His suit jacket is off and dangling with practiced nonchalance on the back of his chair, and his (undoubtedly expensive) glasses are riding low down the bridge of his nose. He appears to be reading a local newspaper, but his eyes keep flicking away from the words for him to be truly paying attention.

It takes one quick flick of her gaze over his calloused hands and sharp eyes for her to recognize that he is a spy (her hackles rise) and that he’s not after her (steady, steady). His mark appears to be a handsome blond standing near her table with his hands jammed in the pockets of his light blue windbreaker. She hears him tell a joke in German with an Austrian accent, and the man he’s with chuckles politely. He’s looking at the spy as well, though his interest is more carnal than analytical.

The way the young spy’s eyes snag on the Austrian’s calves makes Natasha think he’s looking for something hidden on his person, and the faint crease between his eyebrows tells her that he’s quickly losing his patience. Something is about to happen, and it was going to be ugly when it did.

She thinks, _eh, what’s the harm in it_ , mainly because this kid has “fresh meat” written all over him. She knows the carefully studied look of a spy, and can see through it easily ( _years and years and_ years _of practice_ ).

She tucks away her phone and walks by, discreetly bumping into his chair. When she turns to apologize, she leans in close.

“Check his left jacket pocket,” she purrs in his ear, and a look of amazement flits across his face for a quarter of a second, and he gives her an easy smile and a nod, one professional to another.

She can’t help herself; she sticks around at a used bookstore across the street in order to see how things work out for the young spy. She watches with interest as the blond Austrian and the posh spy exit the café together and hang a left into a darkened alley, shoulders brushing each other. _Catch more flies with honey, after all._

Fifteen minutes later, during which she picks out a book of Frank O’Hara poems, the spy leaves the alleyway, tucking something into his jacket pocket. _Check and mate, agent._

She doesn’t expect to see him again.

 

 

II.

 

 

Natalie Rushman is on a business trip in Saudi Arabia, but Natasha Romanoff is on the job, seeking out anti-mutant legislators with ties to HYDRA. She has tracked them all over creation, and now they think they’re safe, counting their money and vacationing in Saudi. Natasha knows better.

Natalie is in a hotel bar, pronouncing Arabic phonetically in ringing American tones, when she sees him. The genteel spy from Switzerland. Natalie barely looks at him, blue eyes blinking guilelessly, but Natasha zeroes in on him, wondering how the world could be so small.

He doesn’t see her yet; his whole demeanor is different, he looks genuinely relaxed. She allows herself to notice that he’s quite handsome, if you’re into that sort of thing; jawline sharp enough to cut, a double-breasted bespoke suit hugging his frame just right. She turns away and gives her bartender her most charming, bubble-headed smile, and reaches into her purse, nudging her Sig Sauer as she feels for her wallet.

She sees the legislators in question; dumb enough to sit crammed together in a booth, toasting to their new lives and the new world order that would come to fruition. They wouldn’t live to see tomorrow, let alone any new world order.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

She looks to her right, and there’s the gentleman spy, taking up a stool beside her. He smiles at her, eyes sparkling.

“Hi,” she says in Natalie’s bubbly tones, “I’m Natalie.”

“Sure. Natalie,” he says, RP accent rising and falling with irony. “Nice to meet you.”

“Does the gentleman have a name?”

“They call me Galahad.”

“Ah, Galahad. I’m guessing your parents are into Arthuriana.”

“Monty Python, actually. And if I might offer some assistance, from one Westerner to another.”

“By all means, go ahead.”

“I’ve always found,” he says, his voice dropping a couple of decibels, “that knowledge in chemistry works best during jobs like these.”

Natalie smiles, and raises one eyebrow. Natasha’s ears prick up.

“Oh?”

“Yes. And if you say the word, I could lend my expertise. You know, for Switzerland.”

Natalie’s lips stretch with Natasha’s smile, canine and uncanny. “That’s very kind of you, Sir Galahad.”

“Just Galahad will suffice.”

“Well, Galahad,” she says, primly closing her purse with her red-nailed hands. “What kind of woman would say no? I accept.”

“With pleasure.”

With the click! of a pen and five minutes to spare, five foreign businessmen get on the local news for their mysterious deaths, chalked up to the immense amounts of illegal drugs in their systems. The simultaneity of their deaths is curious, and if a beautiful American redhead and an English investment banker are involved, no one is any wiser.

 

 

III.

 

 

It’s in Lisbon that things become inevitable.

“You have your secrets,” he chuckles in her ear, pushing a hand inside her blouse, “and I’ve got mine.”

She didn’t know his true name; he didn’t know hers. That was what made it exciting. She stamps a hard, sloppy kiss on his smooth jawline, and her hands are pulling off his suit jacket, and he shrugs out of it. She breaks for air and they stare at each other, her knee wedged between his thighs.

They don’t make it to the bed; she rides him through his trousers, skirt off, wearing Natalie’s sensible-but-sheer black underwear. He’s careful to take off his signet ring before things get too wild (“Bit of a mood killer,” he says, and Natasha’s curious as to what it does), and his hands brace against her waist. She opens his fly and dips her hand into his boxers, feeling for hot skin.

He’s hard already, and he pulls off her underwear eagerly; she slips on the condom she always keeps in her wallet for this express purpose, and rocks into him with some relief, letting one gasp escape her lips.

His hands are leaving welts on her hips, and she grinds harder, liking the grips of heat on her skin. She touches her breasts, fingers stroking and tweaking her nipples, panting like a wild animal.

When he comes, he’s a gentleman about it; she’s come to expect that from him. Someone taught him well.

He carries her to the bed and splays her on the sheets, and she can’t help a full-bodied moan as he puts his mouth on her, tongue dipping in and out of her, circling her clit. His elegant hands are wrapped around her thighs, and he grips her tight against him as she bucks against his face, toes curling. She comes with a groan, and he continues his ministration as she rides her orgasm out.

When they are done, he helps her dress, and she helps him with his cufflinks. They leave his hotel room at different times, and board different planes for different locales.

She doesn’t think anything of it.

 

 

IV.

 

 

She is the Widow once again, and the identity slips onto her like a second skin. It’s been so long since she’s let the Black Widow out of her web, and it feels great to stretch her many legs.

The Avengers are battling yet another global threat, and it is during this particular bit of chaos that she learns of the Kingsmen, who were on good terms with SHIELD prior to its dissolution. They mainly keep to themselves, but threats like these always require backup.

She’s no longer surprised to see Galahad running toward her, shooting aliens with precision (and with a black umbrella; where do they _get_ these wonderful toys?), and thinks nothing of tossing him a pistol so that he can fight two-handed.

After that night in Lisbon, she hasn’t thought much of the dapper young spy; she’s seen them all, MI6’s finest meant almost nothing to her. It isn’t until she hears him bark “Fuck yeah!” in a decidedly-not-RP London accent that she starts to wonder.

When the furor dies down and the world is saved, she sticks out a hand and smiles her real smile, all tooth and fang. “I’m Natasha.”

He shakes her hand, beaming, eyes glittering with mischief. “Eggsy.”

 

 

V.

 

 

She meets with Eggsy whenever she’s in town; they tend to spend their time watching British telly and practicing their sparring. They don’t sleep together again except once, under the guidance of a certain Roxy Morton (Eggsy is nice enough to give Natasha her number, and Natasha’s grateful to find that it’s share and share alike between the two friends and coworkers). She and Roxy grow close, and they finally indulge him and let him watch them in action one day.

She introduces him to Clint (“Fuck off, how many trick arrows do you _have_?”) and he introduces her to Michelle and his sister. It’s nice to meet someone who still has ties to his home life, and she folds in nicely with Eggsy’s London family.

They argue _a lot_ (“You’re Russian and you’ve never seen _GoldenEye_?” “I was a little busy in 1995, thank you _very_ much.”), and they eat a lot of takeout. She watches all his favorite childhood movies and knows that he tears up every time at the scene where Ariel gets her legs at the end of _The Little Mermaid_ , and he looks at her with shock when she says her favorite childhood cartoon is some obscure 1947 film called _The Humpbacked Horse_ (“How old are you, anyway?” “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”). 

The world always needs saving, as it must. Their paths cross multiple times, both professionally and intimately, and it becomes as natural as breathing to nod and say “Hey, Galahad,” as he returns in that too-corny RP accent, “And you, Natalie?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I found out Taron Egerton wanted to be an animator growing up, and it ruined my life. That's all.


End file.
